Darkside (11 page)

Jim went back to his cube and called the chief to pass on the new marching orders. Then, once again, he tried to get out of the building to get his exercise in. This time, he ran into the commandant, who was walking back over to his offices in Bancroft Hall. Captain Robbins indicated he wanted Jim to walk with him.

“That department head meeting was the result of your warning,” Robbins said. “Good headwork. Now, I have an
assignment for you.” He paused for a moment as a gaggle of midshipmen walked by, saluting by the dozen. “You were CO of the MarDet here? Before you got out and took this security job?”

“Yes, sir.”

Robbins nodded slowly as they resumed walking. “Why'd you get out, if I may ask?”

Jim knew he had to be careful with what he said. He didn't know whether or not the commandant knew about what had happened in the Balkans that brought him to the Academy in the first place. “I figured out that I didn't want a career in the Corps,” he said. “I decided to take some time out, to work out what I really wanted to do with my life. This job came open at the end of my tour as CO of the marine detachment, so I took it.”

“Hmm. Yes. Not exactly a young man's job, is it?” They turned up Stribling Walk toward Bancroft Hall.

“It's a job, sir. I give it good measure. But, no, I don't look at it as a career. On the other hand, I may not be the career type.”

He thought he saw Robbins smile, which was unusual. “We tend to forget that, those of us immersed in the career Navy,” he said absently. “I seem to remember something about a problem in Bosnia?”

So much for that little secret, Jim thought. “I was involved in a friendly fire situation,” he said. “Some Brit artillery went blue on blue. I was the spotter.”

“Ah,” Robbins said. “Were you actually responsible for the error, or were you the designated goat?”

Jim was surprised. Robbins looked sideways at him. “Oh, I know something about how the Corps operates, Mr. Hall. Whenever there's a screwup that embarrasses the Marine Corps, somebody has to take a fall. ‘Disciplinary cut,' I think they call it. They pick somebody who was involved, not too senior, hopefully, and hammer him to the satisfaction of whichever general's been embarrassed. Guilty or not.”

“It was the Brits who screwed up,” Jim said. “To their
credit, they admitted it. The UN commander called it another way, so then the Corps was on the hook. Plus, I had expressed some reservations about what we were doing.”

“How convenient. You were a natural target. I understand. Well, here's what I need: I want you to find out as much as you possibly can about the NCIS investigation, using whatever resources you can muster. Ditto for anything being worked in the county or state law-enforcement channels, such as the Anne Arundel medical examiner's office, from whence I suspect the leak cometh.”

“I can tap the chief's web for some of this,” Jim said. “Bustamente knows everybody.”

They had arrived at the Tecumseh monument. “Don't care and don't really want to know,” Robbins said, “if you catch my drift. Just feed me as much intel as you can. Directly to me. As you know, I can't lean on NCIS—that Branner woman would squawk command interference. But we need to be in the loop, one way or another, Mr. Hall. This thing is going to get bloody. I'm sure of it.”

“It already has,” Jim said. “For Midshipman Dell.”

Robbins gave him a pained look but then nodded. “I don't for one moment believe that this young man was killed,” he said. “A homicide here is just inconceivable. I think this was some kind of end-of-plebe-year stunt that went terribly wrong. But, be that as it may, please be discreet. No James Bond stuff. I don't want anybody on the staff to know you're doing this.”

“I'll get right on it,” Jim said. He resisted the impulse to salute as the commandant turned away abruptly and headed into Tecumseh Court. Jim turned left and went down along the sidewalk flanking the first wing.

The commandant had been right on about what had happened to Jim's career over there. His commander at the time, a major with very serious career aspirations, had sat him down and told him the bad news after the incident and the ensuing investigation. He was to be relieved of his duties and sent out of the theater. No further disciplinary measures. An assignment to a ceremonial post somewhere. When Jim
had objected that he hadn't done anything wrong, the major had just looked at him. You were involved. That means the Corps was involved. Henderson Hall needs somebody to take the fall. You're young, with lots of time to go. I'm at the twelve-year point, with half a career invested. You're the goat. Suck it up, and the Corps will take note of your sacrifice. That's how it works. He'd ended up at the Academy one month later.

Twenty minutes later, he was banging through laps in a side lane of the training pool, called the Natatorium. The Nat was in MacDonough Hall. There was a second, Olympicsized pool in Lejeune Hall, with seating for one thousand spectators, but the old Natatorium was used mostly for swimming instructions and tests. A familiar drama was unfolding above the middle of the pool. A lone, miserable-looking midshipman sat on the steel grates of the infamous jump tower, a steel platform suspended twenty-five feet above the water, from which every midshipman who wanted to graduate had to jump. The purpose of the drill was to teach the mids what it might be like to abandon a sinking ship.

The exercise was simple, if sometimes daunting. The mids, fully clothed, had to climb a free-hanging steel ladder, ascending from the surface of the pool up to the platform, more than two stories above. They then had to walk to the end of the platform, assume the approved safety posture for the jump, and, on signal from the class supervisor, step off and drop into the pool, come back to the surface, demonstrate the strokes needed to sweep fuel oil out of the way, and then swim to the side of the pool.

Most mids did it without incident. Some were so afraid of doing it, they didn't graduate. In every case, the reluctant dragons were ordered to climb to the platform—which in itself was scary, because the ladder slanted in at an overhang angle as soon as the mid climbed aboard—and stay there until they made the jump. A jump supervisor would remain on the side of the pool to encourage the mid to get it over with. There were mids who had spent the night on the tower. This one had apparently balked during a ten o'clock PE class, and
so he had been on the tower for only a few hours, although he didn't look like he was going anywhere anytime soon. As Jim remembered, the next step would be to send for his roommate, who would climb the tower and try to talk him into making the jump. And if that didn't work, they'd detach the ladder.

After fifty laps, Jim still didn't know exactly how he would approach the dant's mission, but his leg muscles were telling him that it was time, innkeeper. He heaved himself out of the pool and grabbed his towel, just as a lone female swimmer did the same on the other side of the pool. Her distinctive swimsuit identified her as a member of the varsity swim team. He also took a moment to admire her very fine figure. That young lady was definitely built for speed, and she smiled through a hank of wet hair when she saw him looking. Then he recognized her: She was the midshipman the NCIS people had been interviewing in the Dell case. Owner of record of the infamous panties.

He grabbed his towel and walked over to where she was drying off. Behind them, the tower jump supervisor, a Marine captain with a shaved head, had begun yelling at the mid on the tower, exhorting him to stop wasting everybody's m-f-ing time and
do
the goddamn thing. That he, the instructor, had already missed chow and wasn't
about
to miss liberty, too.

“I'm Jim Hall, security officer here at the Academy,” Jim said.

“Midshipman First Class Markham, sir,” she replied promptly, continuing to towel off. Respectful, but cool. And really good-looking.

“Hey, I'm a civilian,” he said. “You don't have to call me sir.”

She straightened up, draping the towel across the front of her suit as if realizing just how revealing the competition gear was. “I heard the word
officer,
” she said. “Besides, you're not a midshipman, you're bigger than I am, and older. That'll get you a sir every time.” Hint of a smile.

Older? Ouch. He was maybe six, seven years older than
she was. “Think he'll do it?” he asked, pointing with his chin at the gray-faced mid up on the tower. She turned to look. Strong profile. Her mother must be something, Jim thought.

“That's Captain Mardle over there,” she said. “The instructor doing the yelling? We call him Captain Marble. If he starts to take his gym clothes off, that guy'd better jump. He doesn't want to be there if Marble is forced to swim out there and climb the tower.”

Captain Marble, Jim thought, staring at the supervisor's glistening scalp. It did look like a marble. An angry marble, now that he thought about it. Getting angrier, too.

“You were a Marine officer, weren't you, sir?” she asked, looking around for her klacks.

“How could you possibly guess?” he said with a grin.

“Haircut, military bearing, the Academy ring. You obviously work out. The way you were looking at the guy on the tower. Like you'd enjoy going out there and lending a hand. Or a foot, maybe.” She was still smiling. She bent over, balancing on one foot with ease, to pull on her shower shoes. She'd been looking him over, too.

He laughed out loud. She was right: If it were him, he'd go out there, climb the tower, disconnect the ladder into the pool, and then jump off. “So,” he said. “How's the Dell thing going? They know what happened yet?”

Her expression froze. Not quite alarm, he thought, but suddenly guarded. No longer even a hint of flirtation. He moved to reassure her. “I was there when we were lining up the first interviews,” he said. “Right after the incident. You were the first one up, as I remember.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yes.”

“My people and I caught the initial call,” he said, suddenly wanting to keep it going. “Tell the truth, I wish it had been somebody else.”

“You
saw
him?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky. “I heard it was—it was very bad.”

“
Bad
doesn't describe it,” he said. “Sorry I brought it up. I mean, if you knew him, that is.”

“Not really,” she said, turning away as if to mask her expression. Is she embarrassed? Jim wondered. “They just wanted to ask some questions. He was in our batt, but otherwise…” Her voice drifted off. She obviously didn't want to talk about it. She began gathering her stuff to leave. He didn't want her just to walk away, but he couldn't think of anything else to say without making it really obvious he was either hitting on her or questioning her. She smiled over her shoulder and walked toward the locker rooms, tugging the bottom of her bathing suit. Jim watched her go. Definitely a female. He remembered to breathe.

Captain Marble dropped his clipboard onto the tile floor with a loud slap and bent down to begin taking his shoes off. The reluctant dragon on the tower saw that, got up, and trotted right off the tower as if nothing had ever happened. About a 1.0 for form, Jim thought, but at least the kid did the deed. Markham had been right. He headed for the guest locker room, trying to get back to the problem at hand but not doing all that well. There was no way in hell he was going to fool the flame-headed Special Agent No First Name Branner. Her sidekick, now, was a possibility.

 

Ev didn't get back to his office until four o'clock. He groaned when his phone announced nine voice mails, but the one from Liz grabbed his immediate attention. He called her back, and she told him that she was meeting with Julie in an hour in her office.

“I can make that,” he said. There was a moment of silence.

“Ev,” Liz said, “I want to meet with her one-on-one this time. That rumor about a possible homicide is solidifying.”

Surprised, he didn't know what to say. She apparently sensed his confusion. “I need to impress upon her that she needs my protection. Not the two of you. She's about to be a commissioned officer. I need her to think in the first person singular.”

“O-kay,” he said. “I guess I was operating under the assumption that three minds were better than two.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Although the usual expression is
two
minds; three tend to divide into sides. But I think Julie's seeking your protection from this investigation as much as mine. I need to have her focused on what I tell her. You can't protect her like I can.”

“True.”

“And I'm not talking about shutting you out, Ev. It's more a case of calibrating my client. You're paying the bills. I will absolutely keep you informed.”

It makes sense, he thought. “Okay,” he said. “You're the lawyer. That's what I'm paying for. But please: Let me help with any inside background. You know, the Academy context of what you hear. I believe it will be the Academy that will be calling the shots here, not the NCIS.”

“Not if it's a homicide investigation,” she said. “If this were simply some outrage to the Navy's dignity at a football game, then, yes, our focus would be on what the Academy was going to do about it. But if it's murder, law enforcement is going to drive it.”

“I can't believe a midshipman has been murdered,” he said, meaning it.

“I can't, either. That's not what the Academy's supposed to be all about, is it?”

He found himself shaking his head at his desk. “The world turned upside down,” he said, remembering what General Cornwallis had ordered his band to play at Yorktown. Then, not wanting to end their conversation on a negative note, he added, “I enjoyed dinner last night. Sorry for the emotional spaz.”

She didn't say anything, and he wondered if he'd misspoken.